Flo-Rider

Let’s clarify: I was a Flo-RIDER and Peter was the Flo-DRIVER. (Flo = Florence. Super cool, I know.)

Let me begin with this. Upon arriving in Florence, we hopped into a taxi with a driver who could have raced any of our drivers in Thailand and, perhaps, won. We sped down highways, and whipped around hair-pin turns as we climbed the little mountain to our villa in Tuscany. It was a whole thing. A whole scary thing.

But, unfortunately, for budget reasons, we could not rely on the expertise race-car driver skills of a cab driver for our entire stay. And the bus was only an option sometimes. So, our dear and gracious AirBNB hostess, Annalisa, offered up her little manual hatchback for all our driving needs. WHY she chose to trust us, two strangers, with her vehicle on roads unfamiliar to us, I may never understand. But she did . . . and the adventure ensued.

Our first day out, we played it safe and drove to the bus stop and took the bus into Florence. That went smoothly. And was only mildly terrifying.

Day two, consisted of driving to Mount Amiata. This was a two-and-a-half-hour drive . . . both ways. Whoa! While this may seem ambitious, remember that we live in the era of Google maps. Google gets ya there! However, Google can’t drive the car for you, which is slightly unfortunate.

I will begin by saying this. The drive was stunning. Seeing and exploring the countryside, with sunflower fields and the forested mountainside, lunch in Sienna (Where I got an accidental tuna sandwich. Tuna makes me gag. One person in our party heard that these were salami sandwiches. And half of us were pleasantly surprised. *Names are withheld to protect the guilty.* Thank the Lord for gelato to wash away canned-fish-sandwich taste.) and breath-taking overlooks. I will forever treasure this day, and painted within my memory are these scenes.

And getting there, that will forever be imprinted in my scary dreams. But talking about the scary, that helps. Right? So, here’s the scary: You see, to leave our villa, you must descend a mountain. This is a twist-turny steep sort of deal. It’s slightly like being on a roller coaster. You’ve got the slow climb

before teetering on the cusp of the down. But this roller coaster doesn’t have you fitted safely in a track. And there are ancient rock walls hugging you tightly on either side. And then . . . you begin careening down at breakneck speeds. Instead of throwing your hands in the air and “wahoo”-ing your way down, you unknowingly clench your buns together (because this will surely save you from an unforeseen oncoming vehicle going 30 km/hr OVER the speed limit around hairpin turns).  When you finally reach your destination intact, you realize that you are (1) VERY RELIGIOUS because you just spent the past two hours saying all. the. prayers. AND (2) VERY IN-SHAPE because you just spent the past two hours burning all the calories courtesy of the aforementioned butt-clench safety precaution. AND (3) thankful for a brave husband with mad manual driving skills and savvy international navigation skills that afford you to be so prayerful and fit.

+Side note: Going back up the mountain, especially in the dark, is just as exciting. Just, you know, flash your brights before taking that hairpin turn . . . or maybe give a little honk. That’ll save your life if anyone else is in the ‘careening down the mountain’ position that you executed earlier. 

Thai Massage—Parts 1,2,3 & 4

When in Thailand, getting a Thai massage is a no-brainer. You do it. The price is right. Annnnd, when you’ve been working SO hard vacationing, you just kind of neeeeeed it. {Note: I could justify this times one million, but I will spare you. Let’s just say, when in Rome . . . er, Thailand, you do. So we did. Four times. Oops. Not sorry.} As it would turn out, no two Thai massages are the same. So, we thought we’d share.

Ready or not, here come the details . . . each experience appropriately named:

*Round 1:  Blessing on the Beach Thai Massage

On our very first full day at the beach, we had no sooner hung the hammock than we were approached by a lovely older woman named Anita asking if we’d like a massage? Anita, it’s like you read our minds! That was our deepest hope for the day . . . a massage on the beach. And, as it would turn out, she had a massage sister who could make it possible for us to get simultaneous massages. Bonus! Annnnnd, (yep, it just keeps getting better) she threw in the coconut oil for FREE! Who likes free? This girl!

So, for one glorious hour, whilst laying on a beach blanket listening to the sounds of the Indian Ocean crashing against the shore, under the shade of a Shady Thai Beach Tree (Okay, busted . . . that’s not the name of the tree. I made that up.), Anita and her massage sister did their thing while we melted into the sand.  Our brains were turned completely off. We were surrounded by some of God’s most impressive creation. And we were feeling GOOD!

Massage, round 1 received four enthusiastic thumbs up. (In case that was confusing, that’s two from me, two from Peter.)

*Round 2: Thai Abuse Massage

On our last full day in Krabi, we were hoping to go on a Chinese Junk Boat ride (I did NOT make that up. That IS a real thing. And it would have been AMAZING!), buuuuuut, rain. L So, what does one do in Thailand . . . on the beach . . . in the rain? One starts by reading books and drinking coffee. Then one might meander down the main thoroughfare in search of a fun snack . . . . like coconut ice-cream. And THEN, one looks at one’s travel buddy/husband and insists that the time is right for a massage. {If you have chosen your travel buddy well, they will never say ‘no’ to this idea. So choose wisely. Just a helpful hint. You’re welcome.}

We looked for a place that looked less seedy. Finding one that looked promising, we slid off our shoes and let ourselves in. Despite the, “Yoo-hoos and Hellos” . . . no one showed up. While our hearts were saddened, we were not defeated. Wherever we were, there was always another massage place within a stone’s throw. We continued on our way. Down the beach we found a very legitimate

and clean looking place: Sand Sea Resort & Spa. Okay. This was it. Shoes were slid off, we walked up two flights of stairs . . . and checked in. Two, hour-long Thai massages, please.

This place was slightly spendier than our beach massage, but it just looked so classy. And it was still less than $15/person. This was going to be great. We just knew it!

We were led to the row of thin mattresses, and instructed to lay face-down. A sweet-looking Thai girl got to work on me. I was expecting this to be similar to our beach experience earlier in the week. This is why it is wrong to assume things. Because . . . WHOA! This was NOT relaxing. I’m pretty sure that sweet little thing that was scampering around over my body was trying to push me THROUGH the floor. Or at least relocate all my internal organs. At one point I got curious if Peter was receiving the same brutal treatment. As I turned my head, I quickly had to turn back so as not to erupt in giggles (Because who KNOWS what kind of brutality would have ensued as a punishment for laughing . . . merely existing seemed to warrant extreme unpleasantness.). Please let me describe to you what my eyes saw: A large Thai woman, who we will call Brunhilda, seemed to be laying prostrate on top of my husband. I could see zero parts of him. This was like no massage I have ever seen. And now, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I may be continuing our journey alone, having lost Peter to being crushed by massage.

Turns out, we both survived. I knew Peter was still alive when I heard him whimper a request that Brunhilda ease up a titch, as she seemed to be ripping out leg hair. (Apparently hands don’t glide gently over hairy man flesh without the use of oil . . . but there wasn’t a lot gentle happening here, in general.)

After some strange stretches, in which the women wrapped themselves a little bit pretzel-y around us and pulled, slapped us a few times up and down our bodies, the massage was complete. Finally.

We quietly sat up, and in the nicest Midwestern way possible, thanked our abusers . . . and quietly, without making eye contact, walked down the stairs and out the door. We silently put our shoes back on, and, upon straightening up, we finally looked at each other. And burst into the biggest fit of 

laughter. Whatever we had been holding in for the past hour erupted up from our toes and could not be contained. There were tears. TEARS. What WAS that? I’m pretty sure we were a little bit broken, but alive. And now we would need therapy. Thank goodness for low-tide and some solid beach-combing to restore the body and soul.

Massage, round 2 (after they tried to rip each finger, individually out of socket) received one, partially broken, thumb up. And that was generous.

*Round 3: Ex-Con Oil Massage

Because we are brave people, we were not scared off by one unpleasant experience. No. Can’t keep us down!

It had been decided that we would spend Sunday in Chiang Mai, exploring the city and sticking around for their notorious Sunday Night Market. And we did. We did those things. We tooled around, checking out Buddhist temples and taking in the smells and sights the bustling city had to offer. We had lunch in the most delightful little family owned place, eating the best Thai food of all times, and determined that the next logical stop to our afternoon would be a massage. It was approximately a million degrees outside with a zillion percent humidity, so being inside where no walking was required and fans would be oscillating, seemed like the right thing to do. But where in this unknown city does one go for a massage? Well, what does EVERY savvy traveler do when unsure of what’s good where? TripAdvisor. Obviously. And do we EVER doubt TripAdvisor?? No. We do not.

After sifting through all the rated massage spots, the one that rose to the top was Chiang Mai Women’s Massage.  We walked around the corner to find this little “diamond in the rough” only to be greeted by a digital sign flashing “GET MASSAGE BY EX-CON.” Hmm . . . I guess this wasn’t

exactly what we had in mind. And, actually, we thought it might just be their schtick. A little something to capture attention. Those booking reservations were donning prison guard attire. Clever. Funny, even. But they were really playing up this ex-con thing. We chuckled, and booked ourselves two-hour long oil massages. (We’re no dummies . . . we learned our lesson. Always go with the oil.)

Come to find out, we would, indeed, be receiving a massage by women who had served hard time in the Thai prison system. Neat. This could be interesting.

At our scheduled time, shoes were removed. Our feet were cleaned and slippered, and we were motioned to follow our assigned ex-con into highly-rated establishment. On the first floor, she walked us past the row of massage beds lined with happy customers receiving their traditional Thai massages. And we went up a flight of stairs. Floor two boasted chairs designed for the lucky customers receiving foot and leg massages. And we went up a 2^nd flight of stairs. WHERE WERE WE GOING??? In our slippered feet, we certainly weren’t going anywhere fast. More of a shuffle, really.

On the third floor, we were led to a dark corner room. Just the two of us, Peter and me, and our two ex-cons. There were two massage beds in our room, and upon each bed was a little basket. Mine contained a hairnet and black paper undies. Peter’s contained just the black paper skivvies. So this is how we do an oil massage in the ex-con establishment. We were instructed to ‘suit up’ (or down . . . depending on how you look at it) for the occasion—the given garments were fresh, we were assured. I took the opportunity to use the bathroom and came back to our little room to find Peter ready to go . . . donning those black paper undies like a champ. And with confidence. I was greeted with some real fancy-pants Zoolander moves. (This, perhaps, is where I should thank the friends who felt it necessary to introduce me to Zoolander. But I will not.) Try to erase THAT from your eyeballs. You can’t. J As Peter described it, it was like a hairnet . . . for your crotch. Mmmk. And for some reason, I assumed he would have received a different version of the ensemble from me. But no. We were total black puffy paper undie twinkies. And NOW we knew why we were ushered up to a dark upstairs corner room for this affair. NOBODY wants to see that—that could potentially ruin other’s massage experience. After composing ourselves, we got the knock on the door. It was time. This show was starting.

Annnnnd, turns out. . .it was completely delightful. These ladies did their job with professionalism and know-how, and were successful in relaxing travel-weary bods.

Having read up about this establishment after the fact, it’s a cool program to rehabilitate women ex-cons, most having done time for drug trafficking or dealing out of desperation. However, reentering the workforce after serving prison time was proving to carry a huge stigma and holding women back from being productive members of society. This program offered the women intense Thai massage training and provided them with work and community as they resumed life outside of prison. So, not only was it a great massage, but we could feel good about where our money was going!

Massage, round 3, while unconventional and unexpected, proved that TripAdvisor has still got it and received four (mostly enthusiastic) thumbs up.

Old Town - Chiang Mai

*Round 4: Farewell Airport Massage

Our time in Thailand had been an adventure--from the arrival by longboat to the beach to the treehouse to the elephants to the taxi rides to. . . all of it. Even our exit earlier this morning had been an adventure. We drove down a rocky, winding mountain road to a lake. We loaded our luggage onto a small boat, and, surrounded by tree-covered mountains, we cruised our way to the other side of the lake, loaded our belongings into a car and continued on to the airport. Nothing can beat the hotel checkouts here in Thailand. There’s nothing ordinary about them!

But this was it. We were headed to the airport for our flight to Bangkok and one final night in Thailand. After checking ourselves in at the airport, we tooled around a bit, only to discover we could get one final farewell massage. At the airport. For what it would have cost us to get two lattes back home, we were able to get two 30-minute foot and leg massages. Plus, it was my birthday. Happy birthday to me? Okay.

And it was inspired. Everything about it was so right. I only wish this was standard practice in air travel. Not those black massage chairs into which you insert coins and that sit in the middle of the terminal. No. Not that. But the real, trained professionals. Doing their thing. Right there in the airport.

Massage, round 4, received three thumbs up . . . the only deduction coming from the fact that it just wasn’t long enough. And very specific to only feet and legs.L But STILL, so good!

We would definitely encourage partaking in the Thai massage thing . . . but maybe just choose wisely. Perhaps this very helpful rating system will help guide your massage-seeking steps.

Bikes, Bat Cave, and Beyond . . .

It was decided that we’d stay close to ‘home’ for today’s adventure—we’d tool around on the Treehouse bikes and checkout local points of interest. 

First order of business: Find a bike with working breaks for the winding, hilly roads . . . and, bonus if you find a bike seat that won’t exacerbate sore elephant-riding bums from previous day’s adventure. (We were only mildly successful on both accounts. 

Second order of business: Ride. And don’t get hit by a truck. (Very successful . . . on both accounts. Except, when uphill was in order. My bike didn’t excel at uphill.)   

Third order of business: Explore Bat Cave. (Yep. You read that correctly. Bat. Cave. We're pretty much Batman and Robin (you can decide who's who) with slightly less cool modes of transportation.)

After rolling down a muddy jungle path, out of the forest rose an enormous rock . . . all hollow and massive and perfectly suited for batty lifestyle. And since we’re in the throes of Olympic excitement, we will now (verbally) score this experience:

*Bat cave breakdown*

In appearance: Impressive

In feel: Creepy

In smell: Icky

Overall consensus: Once is enough. This amazingly deep, gaping cavernous cave (Redundant? My bad.) was definitely something to see, but guano caked flip-flops and goose-bump inducing eeriness lend themselves to finding different local attractions for future exploration.

Final order of business: Walk to the nearby scenic lookout to peer down into the lush, tree-covered valley and be impressed by the beauty and the low clouds pushing themselves in and among and through the landscape. 

Mission complete.

Entertaining Elephants . . . or vice versa

Waking up in our treehouse this morning, we were thankful that we had left the beach well rested . . . because we were up with the roosters. Literally. One was just sitting up in our tree. Crowing his face off. And, if you know me, you know I have a whole rooster rant up my sleeve. (THE SHORT VERSION: If they weren’t necessary for chicken procreation, I would have been picketing to keep them off the ark. Get your hours straight, or you drown, Rooster!) But, even the rooster’s rudeness could be forgiven today. Because today was elephant day. “Be a mahout (elephant trainer/rider/care-taker)” day. Can’t spoil THAT for us, Rooster!

After a slightly strange “American” breakfast (Let’s just go ahead and tell the world: To make something American, we don’t simply add a hot dog to the mix. Cut it into a fancy spiral, and it’s still a hot dog.), we loaded up a vehicle with a sweet family from Italy. Winding through jungle roads, we eventually pulled into Baanchang Elephant Park, a family owned and operated elephant rescue and reserve. Surrounded by small mountains covered in banana plants and sugar cane, it’s beauty was only accented by the presence of their fourteen gentle giants. Even little baby-face, at two years old, had some giant going on. But, THAT FACE. . . definitely baby. But I digress.

Before we could approach the elephants, we had to be properly attired. We each received an official Baanchang Elephant Park t-shirt, with some very special balloon-y pants. You could fit approximately four people into each pair of these mahout trousers, so it was a little bit of a production getting everything into place. We found it worked best to tag team this effort. Get your pants wrapped around you just so, then tap out and have a friend cinch that little rope around you to the point where it a little bit hurts. Ain’t nobody want to lose their britches when clambering up onto an elephant!

Next came our Thai elephant command vocabulary class. Our mahout teacher, Baim, taught us how to tell our elephants to: stop (If I remembered nothing else, I was determined to remember this one!), move forward, backward, turn left and right, mouth open, leg up . . . higher, and well done, elephant. With each command, came a specific action. SO much to remember, but why waste time in the classroom when the elephants were just out there waiting?!? It was time to practice.

Baim introduced us to Christina Aguilera (because . . . she's a natural elephant namesake), our training elephant. Our first job was to get friendly with her. What better way to do that than with a snack? That always wins me over. With sugar cane in hand, we approached Christina and offered her a treat. The first one she plucked daintily from our hand with her trunk and fed herself. Then we were instructed to tell her to open her mouth--she moved that big, muscular trunk straight up in the air, and stood there, pointy triangular mouth gaping—and place a cut of sugar cane right on that pink tongue. Act of bravery #1: Complete! Next, we got to feed bananas to the baby. What a sweet little thing, and definitely into bananas.

Now that we were besties with the elephants, it was time for a practice ride. Who should go first? Baim must have decided to choose the most panicked-looking of the lot. . . and went with me. My guess is that he wanted to show our little group that if the super-freaker of the bunch can handle this, we could all come out unscathed. So, we instructed Christina to lift up her front leg to create a stepladder of sorts, and up I went. And, here’s the thing: I find horses to be plenty big and slightly

terrifying. Christina trumped all horses everywhere . . . and she didn’t have a saddle. With panic overtaking my heart, I tried to play it cool and practice my commands, gaining small bits of confidence with each try. *small* After going through the list of commands, I was deemed adequate for driving an elephant and was granted permission to dismount. Our Italian friends took their turns, and then it was Peter. He popped right on up there, Baim told him scooch back, then stand up. (WHY one would do this is beyond me?!?) And he did it. Pretty much a professional. Or something.

All practiced up, we were rewarded with a smooch from one of Christina’s friends. It was a very    suction-y sort of kiss . . . .long and lingering, right on the neck. A sweet send-off to lunch.

After fueling up for the afternoon with some Massaman curry, it was time. Time to ride. Into the jungle. I was going to be first driver, Peter the passenger. How, may you ask, was this decided? We were told that the first half of the ride would be easier. Don’t mind if I do, sir . . . I will gladly drive this elephant on the easy portion.

Safely mounted and in position, we were off. We could feel the power of the beast beneath us with each step. Pretty amazing. Apparently our elephant hadn’t taken her lunch break while we did, because she was HUNGRY! And, let’s be honest, consuming 250 KG of food a day is a full-time job! So, we walked a little . . . ate a little . . . and some of us (read: me) were terrified a little. But we bravely rode. And not one was lost. Halfway through our journey, it was time to switch. I became the passenger to Peter’s driver. As we lumbered downhill, I was grateful to be in the back. Feeling as if you are going to tumble head over heel off the head of an elephant, Isn’t my idea of adventure. I like when adventure feels mostly safe. And when our sweet girl decided to uproot an entire banana plant on a high embankment, nearly standing on her hind legs to get it, I was so thankful to have my passenger rope to hold onto. When she finally acquired what she was after, our girl decided to follow directions again and continued on. Down to the river to walk to the bathing pool.

When we got to the pool, the elephants slowly knelt down, rolled over onto their sides, and we slid off. Their big eyes would close halfway as we scrubbed them down with brushes, giving our hard-working girls a cool break. After playing for a bit—everyone showing their tricks, whether that be water-pooping (the least desirable of the feats) or spraying with their trunks—we made our way over to the swimming hole. Here, we stayed on the back of our elephant, a true mahout in between Peter and me, as our plucky pachyderm took us for a swim. Head down, she would nearly submerge us, the pop all the way up again.

The day would not be complete without a group picture, soaked and delighted . . . as we cozied up next to the elephants that gave us a day to remember!

Okay, Thailand . . . that was awesome!